


The Journalism Club Murders

by writing_wraven



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Detective, F/M, High School, Journalist, Modern Era, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Romance, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenagers, bad boy, irreverent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29494944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_wraven/pseuds/writing_wraven
Summary: When high school girls are being found dead, the police rule them all as suicides. Everyone is convinced it's merely a tragic coincidence.Except for Amara Pearson, whose harmless obsession with a hot fellow member of the journalism club causes her to notice some connections between him and the dead girls. She takes it upon herself to get concrete evidence that he's their killer.Spending time with a cute senior while also uncovering a story that will definitely make her the favorite of the journalism club? It's a win-win. Except for the dead girls, of course.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character





	1. Stories

Before we begin, I want to start by saying this: this is not a normal story, and I am not a normal girl. 

I do things and make certain decisions that might make you question my sanity, but don't start side-eyeing any straitjackets you may have lying around just yet. I'll tell you the same thing I told my friend Carla when we were playing truth or dare at a sleepover with my girls and she was asked which guy in our grade she'd get naked with: this is a no-judgement zone. Of course, her answer was Matthew Scalamoni, for which I had no choice but to judge her very harshly. Out of all the guys in the junior class, she picks the one who shit his pants during his Spanish presentation freshman year. But forget Carla's questionable taste in boys. Like I said: no judgement zone.

-

I didn't find out about the dead girl until I got to school. I wasn't the type to instantly check my phone the second I got out of bed, so for me, the blustery Monday in January began like any other. I got up, looked at the clock, wrestled with the urge to say "to hell with it" and drop out to become a local cryptid so I never had to take a chapter quiz ever again, got ready for the day, and drove the few miles to Brushford High School. The chilly morning chased me inside, turning my nose and cheeks pink, and I stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets as I readied myself for just another week of tedium. 

Tedium was instantly out of the question as my friend Seline fell upon me at our usual morning meeting spot. It seemed at first from her wide brown eyes that she was going to ask me if I did the chronically forgettable math homework, but there was a grim tilt to her mouth that stayed the pleasantries forming on my lips.

"Dude. You know Mackenzie Greer?" 

I nodded, picturing the pretty blonde girl in our grade. Picturing her alive. 

"Yeah. She was found dead yesterday morning." Despite the noisy hall, Seline's voice dropped to a grave murmur. "Suicide."

The image in my head promptly shattered. I stared at my friend for a moment, taking in this information one confused blink at a time. Death seemed such a foreign concept to suddenly be walking the halls of my high school, where tragedies consisted of the physics teacher not curving the test, not someone's fifth period deskmate killing herself. Suicide was supposed to be a number, not a name, but here it was. 

"Damn," I said, at a loss for words. I tried to scrounge up a little sorrow, but it wasn't as if I had anything to grieve. She wasn't my friend, just another girl who was nice but a little useless in group projects. All I felt when I pictured her face and her neat, color-coded chemistry notes was a morbid curiosity. "Do we know why? Was there a note or something?"

Seline shook her heavy dark curls, her face pitying. "Not as far as I know. Her family is trying to keep it private, but the details will get out eventually."

"Once the media gets involved," I agreed, knowing all too well how something like this could easily get turned into a spectacle. I remembered another death, back when I was in middle school, of a boy who died in a car accident. The story was in every paper. 

"Yeah, it's really sad. Still gotta do school, though, which sucks," Seline said before leaving me at the diversion of the hallway, already pulling out her phone to stay on top of whatever the latest social updates were. With that gray pallor already cast over my day, I entered my first period. 

My awareness of my teacher's lecture faded in and out as I sat, chin resting on my hand, mentally sifting through every interaction with Mackenzie I'd had this school year, examining each for some sort of sign before letting them fall through my fingers. Suicide created questions that wanted answering, about the intimate details of one's life to which, as a mere acquaintance, I was not privy. Despite her bubbly personality, it was possible Mackenzie had been hiding dark thoughts that had finally become too much. But without a concrete explanation, the story of her sudden death bothered me like a scab you desperately want to pick. 

Sitting in class became even more uncomfortable as the entire student and teacher body gradually became aware of the news. My fourth period was especially bad as everyone's eyes were simultaneously pulled to and repulsed by the empty desk in the front of the room, next to which sat Mackenzie's best friend Lindsay. She looked awful, and nobody dared look at her. 

Lunch was a relief from the somber environment of the classroom, the air filled with the sounds of a third of the school population talking and laughing. Some might find the levity sickening in the face of tragedy, but all the grief was giving me a headache, which inexplicably always occurred when people around me were experiencing strong feelings. I skirted a trash can and slid into a chair at my usual table. Seline was already there, phone in one hand and fork in the other, scrolling through social media. She set her phone down when I arrived and gave me a grim smile. 

"It's all anyone is posting about," she said by way of greeting. "Even Hannah, who I know hated her after that incident in algebra last year. Half of these people are just doing it because it's trending."

Her tone was disdainful; for someone who spent a lot of time on social media, she maintained a healthy skepticism of all of it. I couldn't help but agree with her as I turned my attention to my lunchbox, extracting the package of instant ramen I'd tossed in there this morning. 

"Nice lunch."

I looked up at Carla, who had just arrived and was dropping into a seat across from me. She wrinkled her pretty nose at me, which I returned with a middle finger and a grin. When the pleasantries were over, I got up to use the microwave, and when I came back Sam had joined us at the table. 

"Hey, Sam," we chorused as I slid back into my seat. Sam inspected her own chair, flicked a few crumbs off of it, then sat down, unceremoniously dropping her tray of cafeteria food down in front of her. 

"I really wanted ice cream, but it's four dollars and when I tried to tell her I was distraught over Mackenzie's death and needed free ice cream as therapy, the cafeteria lady threatened to call a counselor," Sam groused. She picked up a napkin and dabbed at her cardboard-esque pizza, soaking up the puddles of grease on top. 

"Sorry, man," I said sympathetically. We all glanced forlornly at the ice cream freezer, which could only be unlocked by a cafeteria worker. There was even a camera nearby, as if teenagers couldn't be trusted not to turn to crime when ice cream was on the line. I mean, yeah, but where's the trust? "We can always go for ice cream this weekend. It's wide open for me now that Mr. Travis pushed back the homework."

Seline nodded, pointing at me with her fork.   
"Same here in most of my classes. Now I have extra time on that photography project I was telling you about. So it doesn't matter that I procrastinated on starting it. Which reminds me—I'll need your help with that later."

"Lucky," Carla said through a mouthful of whatever fancy sandwich her father had made for her. Apparently she wasn't above talking with her mouth full. "None of my teachers gave us a grace period, and one even told us that the counselors might start calling us all down to talk with us one-on-one about depression and shit."

Sam made a face reminiscent of the time a guy made the mistake of trying to ask her out. It was common knowledge that the counselors at our school were useless, and I didn't know anybody who actually went to talk to them about something beside scheduling concerns. 

"It's about as easy to talk to them about our _feelings_ as it is to talk to my dad about the _changes my body is going through_ ," I said before forking noodles into my mouth. 

"Or boys," Seline added, eyes wide with derision. 

Carla nodded, the only one of us who actually had a boy to talk about at all. Sam despised men on principle, Seline had just come out of a relationship and had sworn off "emotionally stunted man-boys" for the time being, and I-

"So Amara," Seline said to me, eager to change the subject. "Any updates on the Ian Situation? Has he said anything to you since that one time?"

My friends directed their undivided attention on me. For three people not interested in new boys, they sure were happy to live vicariously through me. They were fascinated by the Ian Situation. As Carla had explained it to me once, "it's like watching a cute kitten chase a laser pointer. It's entertaining, since we know you'll never catch it."

Ouch. At least she called me cute. 

I shoved another mouthful of noodles into my mouth to keep them in suspense before answering. 

"Last week we got to Mr. Lamar's room at the same time and he held the door for me going in," I said as calmly as I could, then braced myself for the squeals. My friends, however, did not look as impressed as they should've. 

Seline shook her head, smiling as she said, "The bar is so low." 

I shrugged. "Low it may be, but I don't think any other guy here has ever held the door for me."

At that, Seline cast a dark look at a table of boys nearby. They tended to throw things around, and she'd never forgiven them for accidentally hitting her with a grape once. 

"That's because boys suck," she declared, and we all nodded our agreement. But she wasn't done talking about Ian. "Why don't you just start up a conversation with him? You already have Journalism Club in common. You can't moon over him forever."

That shut my smile down quickly. It was easy for her to say that; she was friendly and amiable to everyone. And she'd never had a crush on a senior who'd never spoken more than four words to you before. _Just watch me_ , I thought. 

"It's complicated." My tone got a little defensive. Carla snorted. 

"Story of your life, Amara."

"Facts," Seline said, and I couldn't disagree. Every relationship with a boy I'd ever had was complicated—I'd never had a real boyfriend. Not that it bothered me all that much. Or, at least it hadn't, until Ian Sheppard had moved his hot self here. 

"Well, I'm going to see him again today at the meeting after school," I said. Emphasis on "see." As in, look but don't talk. 

"You could always talk about Mackenzie," Carla suggested. "All teenagers love a good morbid story. And didn't you tell us he went on a date with her once?" 

"Yeah, you were complaining about how he was dating a junior that wasn't you," Sam added, and I forced myself not to bristle at her amused tone. Fresh in my memory was the indignation I'd felt when I saw them at a restaurant I was getting takeout from. _How did he even know her?_

"You can't talk about that. That's horribly tactless," Seline said, ever the watchdog for people's feelings. 

"I'm not going to say that. I'm not going to say anything," I said firmly. The lunch bell rang, and we made our way out the cafeteria together. "I'm going to sit in my usual spot where I can look at him in my peripheral vision and fantasize."

They told me I was lame. 

-

After the school day was finished, streams of students headed for the parking lot or bus stop, but I weaved my way through the throng toward a hallway a little separate from the main area of the school. I entered Mr. Lamar's classroom, sliding on top of my desk in the back of the room. Sophomore Jiwon was already seated in the adjacent seat, and she offered me a quick smile. We had this great relationship where we could be considered friends in this setting, but if we saw each other anywhere else, we ignored the other. 

The Journalism Club meeting started fifteen minutes after class ended, giving everyone plenty of time to get there from wherever they were in the huge high school. I got out my phone and flicked through it disinterestedly, mostly to reinforce the cool loner image I liked to cultivate so people wouldn't talk to me. 

What's that? "Self-sabotage?" What are you talking about? 

In my peripheral vision, I was able to track everyone who entered: Brandi, a hot but kind of dumb senior; Alexa, a junior like me and hotshot gymnast; Jay, who always sat in the back on his phone; Tom, who I'm pretty sure only signed up because Brandi had; and Gabby, another sophomore who liked to draw. Then Ian entered. 

You know those moments in the movies where the girl sees the hot guy and the camera switches back and forth between them, slowly revealing the guy's face as the girl looks all longing and about ready to drool? This was nothing like that. Ian entered in all his handsome glory, and I flicked my hair over my shoulder before briefly glancing at him, then back at my phone. I kept my expression casual, but I'd used those precious few seconds to look him up and down. His auburn hair fell around his shoulders, with a glossy sheen that rivaled my own well-tended hair. _I bet_ he _doesn't use 2-in-1._ His dark eyes were alight thanks to a gut-wrenching smile directed at someone behind him. _Curse you, Person Behind Ian, for being the lucky recipient of that smile._ In addition, because his beauty just didn't know when to quit, his defined jawline needed to come with a health risk warning because of what it did to my heart. The senior slid into his seat, unaware of the spiking body temperature of the girl a few desks away. 

I fired off a quick text to Seline. 

_combat boots outfit today!_

She didn't make me wait long for a reply. 

_do I need to bring a defibrillator?_

I didn't bother hiding my smile as I typed. 

_very funny, but no. I just need you on standby in case he runs his hands through his hair. actually... too late. prepare my eulogy_

_bold of you to assume I don't already have one written for you. I've seen the way you drive_

I set my phone aside as Mr. Lamar dragged himself out from behind his desk once the last of the club members had entered. Our teacher's size and shape were reminiscent of a bowling ball, and he was in a perpetual state of tired indifference. But behind his bored facade, I could tell he cared a lot about journalism. That care was not extended to anyone or anything else, however. 

"Afternoon," he grunted as he sat down into his signature rolling chair. He and walking were arch nemeses, so he liked to roll around the classroom as he talked about journalistic bias or voter apathy (yeah, we didn't know why either). A few people gave a half-hearted response that he didn't acknowledge, focusing instead on turning on the projector. While he engaged in a small battle with technology, I used the time to spy on Ian. He had his booted feet propped up on a nearby empty chair, allowing me to appreciate his long legs. Damn, did he look good in skinny jeans. 

"We'll be examining selection of details and how they differ when the same story is being told by different journalists," Mr. Lamar began. He reached a compromise with the projector, and it started to turn on. "And we have a fresh news story to dissect."

The screen appeared, showing an online periodical with the headline "Local Teen Commits Suicide," with Mackenzie's yearbook picture below. I heard Jiwon suck air through her teeth next to me, and Brandi outright gasped. 

"Umm, Mr. Lamar," Gabby ventured. "That doesn't seem very appropri-"

"Nobody in here was her best friend or boyfriend or anything, correct? Yes? Good. Then there's no objections," he said, completely ignoring the general atmosphere of dismay. My eyes slid over to Ian at the mention of boyfriend, remembering that date they'd shared, but whatever I was looking for on his face, I didn't find it. His eyebrows were up in mild surprise, but he looked mostly unbothered. _A fellow feelings-phobe?_

"The online class has three links I want you to read. We'll reconvene to talk about them in about fifteen minutes."

Instead of wasting time muttering about "the audacity" like some of the others, I opened my laptop and got to work. Behind her own computer, Jiwon looked over at me. 

"This feels wrong," she murmured, idly running a finger over the keyboard. "She just died, like, yesterday."

I shrugged. "It's not like we're disrespecting her or anything. And it's about the writing, not the story itself, anyway."

She didn't look convinced, but I didn't take my eyes off my laptop as I clicked one of the links and began to read. I kept mental notes of the style of each writer as I skimmed each article, but the more I read, the more distracted from the task I got. Mackenzie has overdosed. On _fentanyl._ What even was fentanyl? A quick Google search informed me it was a powerful narcotic. 

_What average teenager has her hands on that?_

"Where would she even have gotten that stuff?" I mused aloud. Though I spoke more to myself, Jiwon looked over, looking mildly distressed. I hadn't realized she was so sensitive. 

"A girl has died, and that's what you focus on?" 

I cut her a look, not liking how judgy she was being. The question felt justified to me; clearly there were questions left unanswered. The story wasn't finished. 

We still had some reading time left, so I found a few more articles on the story. In addition to our local city news, a few larger prints had gotten ahold of the story, and in one such article I found something pretty interesting. 

_Authorities believe the fentanyl Miss Greer used was likely the same as the fentanyl recently reported stolen from the stores of Caldwell Memorial Hospital, where she volunteered. Hospital director Dr. Davies declined to comment on how the teen could have obtained it._

So did that mean sweet Mackenzie Greer stole a narcotic from the hospital? I had trouble reconciling those two things. This whole situation was like an itch beneath my skin, and the more I read, the stronger the itch got. I was too distracted to even fully appreciate the writing and storytelling of each article like I normally would, although I didn't fail to notice the atrocious use of the word 'gobsmacked.' What the hell, author H. Kelly? 

While usually I'd be eager to engage in the discussion Mr. Lamar was starting, I couldn't focus enough to do so. There was a story here, beyond the bare bones of what we knew, and I wanted to find out what it was. Why did Mackenzie kill herself? And at the back of my mind, there was a quiet yet insistent thought, making sure I didn't forget to consider it. 

_What if she didn't kill herself at all?_


	2. Crazy

The half hour of Journalism Club was almost up, but Mr. Lamar wasn't finished with us yet. He clicked off the projector and wheeled his chair-bound self to the center of the room, bracing his arms on an empty desk in front of him. 

"So," he said. "The school newspaper is looking great, even if nobody reads it except the principal."

We all grimaced. The under-appreciated school newspaper was our club's responsibility, with each one or two members in charge of a section. The boys had a monopoly on the sports section, much to the chagrin of Alexa as the only real athlete in our midst, but Jiwon and I traded off writing the general news section. Every other month, my writing was out there, and I didn't care that the only person seeing it was the principal, Dr. Hodge. It was a start to what I hoped would be a long career in journalism. 

"So I've decided to assign a project of a more individual nature," Mr. Lamar continued. "Each of you will write a story. Or some of you will; I don't care. They must all be different. You must write about something I've never seen or read before. And yes, I know, I can't actually assign you homework, so I fully expect certain people among you to disregard this."

Half the class did a good job of hiding the fact that they were looking at Jay. The other half did not. Mr. Lamar was among the latter. Jay remained oblivious, as usual. 

"So as an incentive, there will be a prize awarded to whoever impresses me with their story. The winner will earn one of those letters of recommendation you people are always pestering me about, in addition to something more elusive: my respect."

That got our attention, mine especially. Mr. Lamar's respect was damn near impossible to earn, and I really wanted that letter of recommendation. I had colleges and scholarships to apply for very soon. That meant with his impossibly high standards—seriously, the man would be unimpressed by the Panama Papers—I needed to write one kick-ass story. The classroom was filled with murmurs, and some conversations threatened to spill into arguments as some people fought over what they would write. But our teacher had decided that now he'd dropped that bombshell, he was done with us. 

"It's four-thirty. Get out," he announced. 

We obliged, everyone slinging their bags onto their backs and making their way out. The group split into two: the kids too young to drive headed to the front where their rides waited, while us cool older kids with cars braved the cold of the back parking lot. I got out my cellphone as I walked, watching Ian and Tom chat in the corner of my eye. He seemed so friendly and easy-going, yet he'd never started up a conversation with _me_ , and it kind of bothered me. Didn't he know that the girl who rarely spoke to him was an amazing person to talk to? The two boys were recounting something funny that had happened in one of their classes, and my attention kept straying to Ian whenever he spoke. He had such straight, white teeth, I thought, and I was suddenly overcome by mental images of him biting into things. I had to shut that down before it got out of hand— _stupid brain, stupid. Stop imagining his mouth. Don't picture it on yours... ah, shit._

My car wasn't a car but a big black truck that reminded me of a stallion in a horse movie I was once forced to watch: untamed, temperamental, and unafraid of making loud noises. I loved it. After climbing into the driver's seat, I rested my arms on the steering wheel and took advantage of the tinted windows to watch Ian unabashedly. He and Tom were still talking, and I could just feel the hormones coursing through me when he laughed, showing those perfect teeth again as he tipped his head back slightly. God damn, this boy was a national treasure. Now, I was not the type to squeal or drool when a guy does something sexy, but I was not above letting out a little sigh as he swung a leg over his motorcycle. His _motorcycle_. The sex machine. When he turned it on, I managed to come to my senses and start up my own vehicle, pulling out of the lot just behind him. 

I was not religious, but if God existed, the proof would be the fact that Ian Sheppard lived in my neighborhood. Which meant I had the privilege of driving behind his motorcycle all the way to the entrance to our neighborhood, although it also came with the responsibility of not getting into a crash because I was too busy ogling him from behind. If Satan existed, however, the proof would be that he turned left and I turned right, and I wouldn't get to see his cute butt until another day. To stave off the inevitable feeling of crippling loneliness, I called Seline as I pulled into my driveway. 

"Is it bad that I still feel jealous of Mackenzie?" I asked as soon as she picked up. I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear as I fumbled to unlock the front door. 

"Yes," came her dry voice as I pushed my way inside. She already knew what I was talking about, bless her. "That's pretty bad, Amara. I'm hardly qualified, but may I make a suggestion? Seek help."

I chuckled, dropping the keys into a dish by the door. She was familiar with these wild statements of mine, and we both knew they meant nothing; Seline still supported me and my harmless obsession with Ian. As long as I didn't do anything stupid, which—come on. It's me. I never did stupid things. 

"Speaking of Mackenzie, we had to read a few articles about the whole situation in Journalism Club today."

"Jeez, really? That's in poor taste."

"That's Mr. Lamar for you. But it was crazy—they think she stole the drug she used to-" I paused a moment, searching for the right words- "ya know, _do it_ , from the hospital. Some stuff called fentanyl."

"I have a hard time believing Mackenzie Greer would steal anything."

"Well. Aside from a chance with Ian," I said mildly, wandering through the house. I paused by a table in the hallway, where my dad's handgun had been carelessly left out. _He never puts it away_ , I thought, a little exasperated. I picked it up. At least the safety was on. I strode into my father's study, sliding the gun into the desk drawer. 

"Down, girl. This is a dead girl we're talking about." 

Oh, Seline. Always the voice of reason. She had a point, though. Mackenzie was definitely not the stealing type. One time, when a rash of cheating had the teachers doling out group punishments, she had demanded the cheaters turn themselves in. Not her finest moment, in my opinion, but she had definitely been a goody-two-shoes who didn't go around stealing pharmaceuticals. 

"Okay, I'm going to say something crazy," I said, bracing myself from the backlash from the universe that naturally comes when I voice my crazy inner thoughts. That shit is dangerous. "What if she didn't commit suicide?"

The line was silent for a few seconds, and I took my phone away from my ear to make sure I hadn't accidentally hung up with my ear. But then Seline's voice came through. 

"You're saying you think she accidentally OD'd or something?" Her voice sounded like how I talk when my young cousins come over and ramble on about spaceships or dinosaurs or something: like she was reluctantly indulging me. It's nice to be loved. 

"It's a possibility. But no, that's not what I was thinking. I think she might've been murdered."

Fully prepared for her understandable reaction to my insane theory, I bit my lip. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. If she thought I needed to seek help before....

"Murdered?" I could hear the incredulity in her voice, but to her credit, she didn't immediately hang up and start dialing a mental hospital. Unless she was doing it on a different phone. She always was a pro at multi-tasking. "Do you have any proof?"

"No," I admitted. "But I just have this feeling. Stuff not adding up. So I think I want to do some investigating. What if there's a story here?"

I didn't mention Mr. Lamar's little contest, lest she think I had less-than-noble intentions. Because I was definitely doing this out of the good of my heart. For sure. 

A long-suffering sigh—her patience was wearing thin. "Listen, I love you, but-"

"Some say that everything that comes before the 'but' doesn't count," I said, haughty. 

"Shut up! You got that from Game of Thrones," Seline said, exasperated. 

"And?"

"Fine. I love you. _That being said-_ "

"That's just a fancy 'but!'" I exclaimed. 

"You're a fancy but," Seline shot back, and I smiled. Neither of us spoke for a few moments, so my short attention span switched over to the news I'd read today. One of those articles had mentioned Mackenzie had volunteered at the hospital; maybe there were clues there. 

"Who would want to kill Mackenzie anyway?" she finally said, giving in to curiosity. 

"I don't know. But that's what I intend to find out," I said, making up my mind right then and there—I wasn't going to let this go. Tomorrow, after school, I'd start looking into this whole situation. 

"Alright, whatever. By now, I've learned I can't discourage these hyper-fixations of yours."

Faking a sniffle, I said, "I love how you care about me."

"Bye," Seline said, and hung up. 

In the depths of my consciousness, there was a little space I liked to call my Garden of Crazy. Only a few plants grew there, but I tended them well; the Ian bush was coming along nicely. Since reading those articles about Mackenzie's death, a new seed had planted itself in that garden, and I intended to do some cultivating. 

Maybe I was crazy for thinking there was something more to Mackenzie's death. Maybe it was foolish of me when, the next day, I got back into my truck after coming home from school. Maybe I was wasting my time. But I didn't have any homework that couldn't be put off, and as I pulled out of my driveway, I felt like I was doing the right thing.


	3. Curiosity

The drive to Caldwell Memorial Hospital was fairly short, which was a relief, because if I'd had to sit in traffic too long with just my wild theories to keep me company, I'd probably start doubting myself. But I made it there doubt-free, feeling good as I pulled truck into the large parking lot. My chest already felt lighter as I sat and watched people go in and out of the front entrance, while attempting to formulate my game plan.

Hospitals were busy places that were strictly run, and there was no way the employees in the front would be receptive to questioning when they had actual medical issues to worry about. My attention snagged on a man walking in with a young boy, whose uncomfortable-looking waddle had my imagination running wild on what his problem might be. I found myself suddenly wishing my friends were here; we'd make a game out of guessing why each of the people were there. _Ten bucks says that kid shoved something up his anus._

Past a young couple hurrying to escape the cold, I could see a side road, and on a whim I put the vehicle back in drive. The road took me around to the back of the hospital, where I found the employee parking lot. Not sure yet what I was looking for, I entered anyway, until I saw them: two young women in nurse scrubs were huddled into their coats on a bench near a door, taking a late-afternoon smoke break. They looked friendly enough, based on my judgement of completely arbitrary criteria, so I parked the truck and (after taking a moment to appreciate the irony of nurses engaging in such an unhealthy activity) got out, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets as I approached them. 

If you'd asked me what I was thinking as I walked up to two random strangers outside a hospital, I wouldn't be able to give a satisfactory answer. Very rarely did I do anything that couldn't be described as 'winging it.' 

The women stopped talking and scrutinized me through a cloud of cigarette smoke as I strode up, flashing them my most charming I-am-definitely-not-a-teen-doing-something-suspicious smile. The one on the right, a tattoo I couldn't read on her wrist, responded with her own I-am-definitely-suspicious-of-this-teen smile. The woman on the left just raised a sleek black eyebrow at me as she took a drag on her cigarette. I stopped a healthy distance away, mindful of the secondhand smoke, and said brightly, "Hi!"

"Hi," the woman on the right said, her tone wary. I could almost see "Where are your parents" blinking on top of her eyes, it was so obvious what she was thinking. 

I didn't allow her enough time to ask. "My name is Amara. Do you guys mind if I ask you a few questions?" 

They glanced at each other. "About what?" the one on the left asked, tone wary. 

"Oh, you know, stuff like what y'all do here—the duties and all that." I smothered a grimace at my vague rambling. "I wanna get a picture of what the inside of a hospital is like."

"Sure, kid," said the one on the left, who I liked immediately. 

"Our break is going to end soon, so make this fast," the one on the right added, lips pressed together in disapproval. 

Where to start? Obviously, launching directly into questions about Mackenzie wasn't an option. 

Since I was sans a cool notebook I could flip open, I just took out my phone and opened the notes app. _Get flip-cover notebook_ , I wrote, before glancing up and smiling again, directing it more toward the woman on the left since she seemed more receptive to my presence.

"What exactly is your job here, uh..."

I trailed off, not knowing her name but unwilling to call this woman "ma'am" since she wasn't _that_ much older than me. That honorific I reserved for annoying elderly substitute teachers, some of my friends' mothers, and bad SUV drivers. 

"Teresa," she supplied, blowing out a puff of smoke along with her name. "And this is Guadalupe." 

I coughed as politely as I could as the smoke reached me. "Delighted," I said dryly. This wouldn't have been nearly as unpleasant if they were vaping. Then at least the carcinogen would smell good. So inconsiderate. 

"Well, in regards to your question, we're licensed practical nurses," Teresa said. I nodded, acting like I knew what that was. 

"We help out the doctors by doing the basic medical stuff, like taking vitals and taking care of the patients," Guadalupe added for clarification. 

"Exciting stuff," I murmured, pretending to take notes in my phone. "So you don't, like, administer drugs or anything?" _Like, fentanyl, perhaps? Just spitballing, here._

Teresa moved her head in a kinda-sorta gesture. "We're allowed to do some stuff, like certain IV drips, but generally we aren't handling lots of drugs."

I nodded, rocking back and forth on the curb I stood on. How was I supposed to get the details on the fentanyl now? 

Guadalupe squinted at me, suddenly more suspicious at my mention of drugs—probably because I was a Sketchy Teen. 

"Uh, what did you say this was for again?" she asked. 

I didn't miss a beat. "School project." It seemed to satisfy her somewhat, as she leaned back and put her cigarette to her lips once more. 

I needed to change my line of questioning. "Do you interact with volunteers a lot at your station?" I inquired, as casually as I could, fingers poised over my screen. 

"Oh, some of them," Teresa said, glancing at Guadalupe for confirmation. "Like if they're shadowing one of the doctors, although that doesn't happen very often. But sometimes they're told to follow us around when we're doing easy stuff like triage."

My eyes lit up and I glanced up from my notes to look between the two nurses, doing my best to channel the gossip confidante. 

"Does that mean you guys knew that girl who killed herself?" I asked in a whisper, leaning forward a little in eagerness. I quickly realized my mistake when I got a face full of smoke, and I beat a hasty retreat. Teresa nodded. 

"Yep, we crossed paths a few time. Shame what happened to her—she seemed sweet."

I was pondering how to phrase my next question without revealing my true intentions when she clicked her tongue, reconsidering. 

"Well, other than..." she trailed off meaningfully, giving her friend with a knowing look. I raised my eyebrows at them. 

"Oh yeah," Guadalupe said. She leaned forward herself, her tone getting conspiratorial. "Just over a week ago, some drugs went missing from the second floor supply closet." Her voice dropped in volume. "Nobody else can say, but I thought it was her. I remember running into her near where the theft would occur, when she was supposed to be somewhere else. Said she got lost." Guadalupe scoffed. "After volunteering for months? Yeah, right."

"What drugs were taken?" I asked, keeping my tone light and not too interested so as not to arouse Guadalupe's suspicion again. 

"Fentanyl. Serious stuff—it's super potent. Like, one drop too much and you can kill a patient. It's not used too often because of that. But it goes missing right before a girl kills herself with it? Case closed, if you ask me."

She glanced at her phone, then dropped her cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out. 

"Break's almost over," she told Teresa, then walked briskly for the door. Teresa put out her own cigarette and stood, but she didn't walk away yet, just faced me with her hands in her pockets. A brisk wind blew past, sending her short hair waving. 

"It was pretty weird, but I'm inclined to believe it was a coincidence. They never found who did it, anyway—whoever it was didn't even steal all that much."

Teresa huffed out a breath, glancing at the door her friend had just gone through. "Well, sorry we didn't have more time. Hope you got your answers for, uh... whatever it is you're doing."

I didn't linger in the cold once she went back inside. Plus, I was getting weird looks from other employees in the lot, so I got back into my truck and sat for a moment, waiting for the air to warm up. 

Was it possible I'd been wrong? A rare occurrence, but not altogether unheard of. This could all be exactly as it seemed, and I was wasting my time. I was loathe to give up and go back home, though, and I still wanted to take a look inside. As I headed back toward the front parking lot, I was briefly distracted from my thoughts of Mackenzie by a very interesting sight. 

Ian Sheppard was walking into the hospital.


	4. Opportunities

_Why is Ian Sheppard at the hospital?_

A rational person might have told me that he had more reason to be there than I, but I didn't care. The hospital wasn't like the grocery store, where you constantly ran into people you knew, to the point where you actively avoided going with your mom so you weren't forced into unwanted social interaction with people you hadn't spoken to since middle school. You only went there if you were sick, or if someone you knew was. Which applied to Ian?

My curiosity got the best of me, and I pulled my truck back into the main parking lot. I waited a while after he went inside so we wouldn't run into each other, then hopped out and headed inside. 

Once I entered the waiting room, I hissed a soft curse. My time estimation hadn't been enough, and Ian was only just now speaking to the clerk—and looking fantastic, too. I hadn't seen him at school today, so I'd completely missed out on his outfit until now. 

I hastily pulled out my phone and ducked my head, edging out of sight behind someone standing in line. If I got caught being a literal stalker, any chance of anything between us would be blown. _Because clearly the chances are so good already._ Even as I hid, however, my ears strained to listen to what he was saying to the woman at the desk. All I caught was a name—Marley Sheppard—but it was enough. A nurse escorted Ian into an elevator, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he never even glanced my way. 

I realized that I'd established a place for myself in the line to the front desk for the purposes of my snooping, and I couldn't very well turn around and leave now: people would stare. So why not use this opportunity to do more investigating? 

I only had to wait a few more minutes for my turn, but I was uncomfortably able to hear every word of the conversation between the woman at the desk and the man in front of me, who I now knew had a super fun rash in a not-so-fun place. Basic hygiene, kids: have it. 

When I stepped up to the counter, I sent up a prayer to whoever might be listening that this would work, then smiled at the receptionist. 

"Hi. I'm here to visit Marley Sheppard." 

She looked a little surprised, glancing at the elevator Ian had gone into, but she didn't seem suspicious. It was almost a shame—while I'd been waiting my turn and struggling to block out the unnecessarily vivid descriptions of the man in front of me, I'd concocted a whole alternate family tree and life story to explain my presence there. It never hurts to be prepared, after all, even if the thought of being related to Ian was a huge bummer. 

"She's in room B203," the lady said. "You know, her grandson just went through to see her. Good timing, huh?"

"Yep. That's exactly what it is. Thank you!" I said, making my way toward the elevator. _That was easier than I thought it would be._

Once inside, I closed the doors and considered the button panel. 

_Some drugs went missing from the second floor supply closet._

It didn't take long for me to make up my mind, and I punched in the button for the second floor. 

The elevator let me out into a hallway going left and right, and on a whim I chose left. I wasn't the only non-staff person there, and I just held my head high and did my best to look like I belonged. One of the first things my mother taught me was how to walk like a bad bitch. Right up there with the itsy-bitsy spider and how to hold your keys as a weapon in a dark parking garage. As long as I walked with a purpose, I wasn't likely to be bothered. 

It didn't take long to find a medication storage room like the one the drugs must have been stolen from. A quick glance around showed I was alone in this section of the hall, so I studied the door, hands on hips. There was a sign printed on yellow paper, taped to the wall next to the door jam, reminding people to lock the room after use. I took a step closer and jiggled the handle anyway. 

Locked. Alas. They must teach following directions at medical school. 

Enough nights were spent in the Pearson household watching detective shows that I knew what was supposed to come next. I'd whip out some handy lock picks and be in in no time, but unfortunately I hadn't gotten the memo, and was empty-handed. And the concept of girls always having bobby pins is such a myth. 

I pressed my nose to the glass window in the door, looking at the rows of various vials and bottles of medications inside. The labels were too far away to make out in the dark, and the rest of the small room didn't reveal much. What was there to reveal, anyway? A blinking neon sign saying, "Mackenzie was murdered?" 

I'd just turned around when a nurse appeared and called, "Hey!"

Reflexively, I jumped away from the door, my nerves turning white-hot at getting caught. But I forced a look of innocence onto my face. 

"What are you doing? You can't go in there," the nurse said, frowning at me. The pager on his belt didn't escape my notice. If he thought I was trying to steal, he might call security, and I'd be screwed. 

"Oh, I'm sorry! I'm just looking for my cousin, Ian," I explained, making a quick show of looking around, as if there was anywhere he could be hiding in the empty part of the hall. _Quick! Check inside that trash can!_

His brow furrowed—was he seeing through my lie? I couldn't very well explain my true intentions for being there. To prevent him from seeing my nerves, I clasped my fidgeting hands behind my back. 

"Wait, Ian Sheppard?" The nurse groaned at my nod, shaking his head. "Damn that kid. He's probably at it again."

"'At it?'" I repeated. Dare I hope? Dare I dream? Did this nurse have gossip on Ian?

"Yeah," he said, the word an irritated puff of air. "He keeps getting caught making out with the female volunteers when he comes to visit his grandmother. I always find them in places they aren't supposed to be, like the supply closets."

Holy shit. 

Everyone knew Ian went through girlfriends faster than than my dad falls asleep in movie theaters, but this was a whole new revelation. He was fooling around with the random girls that volunteered here? When he was supposed to be visiting his grandma? How despicably juicy. 

And since he had briefly dated Mackenzie, he had probably been making out with her here, too. Maybe when Guadalupe found her wandering around, it was because she'd been holed up with Ian somewhere. Maybe it was merely a coincidence that it'd occurred near where the theft happened. A small thrill of elation ran through me at the thought of unlocking this connection. 

Then the elation died when I thought of Ian and some random girl in the small, cramped supply closet at my back. Their bodies pressed up against each other, lips meeting passionately. A flush spread across my cheeks as I pictured myself as that girl. Damn, was I jealous. 

"Hey." The nurse interrupted my rapidly spiraling thoughts, looking impatient. "If you see your cousin, tell him to stay in the areas he belongs in. Same goes for you. I don't want to see any of you sniffing around here again. In case you weren't aware, there's been thefts."

He nodded at the sign, crossing his arms. 

"Really?" I asked, glancing between him and the closet. "Why would someone want to steal drugs from a hospital?"

He gave me a disdainful look, but I couldn't tell if it was because of my perceived naïveté or the fact that he was being relegated to delivering exposition. 

"Stuff like fentanyl has street value. And it's very addictive. Now, will you go back to the visitor area, please?"

"Yeah. And if I see Ian, I'll deliver your message to him," I assured him, walking away before he got antsy and tried to escort me himself. 

Some quick research earlier had found an article from back when the fentanyl had been stolen. It wasn't found; the police had wrapped it up with an assumption that it'd been sold for a hefty price on the black market and was currently being shot up into some junkie's forearm. Or Mackenzie's, now.

When I'd made it out of the hospital and back into my truck without further incident or social interaction, I tried calling Seline, but she didn't pick up, which was annoying. How dare her life not revolve around me?

I turned the key in the ignition as I thought over what I'd learned. Despite the doubts the two nurses in the back had cast, the tidbit I'd learned inside had me fairly sure that Mackenzie did not steal the fentanyl. Alternate theories swirled about my head, none more likely than the other, and all without any proof. 

I gripped the wheel tightly out of frustration as I exited the parking lot. But what if she had stolen it? For all I knew, she had taken advantage of the sneaking around with Ian to snag some. But my misgivings about that remained the same—Mackenzie just didn't seem the type to steal anything. 

Which meant I was back to square one. I ground my teeth, impulsively pressing the gas a little harder than was advisable, as though an answer would become clear at a certain mph. 

There was something I had to be missing here, a connection that wasn't making itself clear. I refused to drop the story just yet, even if it was just a collection of 'maybes' for now. I had a contest to win, and that meant there was going to have to be some hard work on my part. 

Indignant honking followed my aggressive lane change, but I didn't care. Couldn't the SUV now tailgating me see that my ire at this mystery was more important than getting their kid to soccer practice on time? 

Journalists didn't give up when they didn't find any clues, I reminded myself as I pulled into my calm neighborhood. They kept at it, hunting the story down with their pen as their weapon, hiding out all day in the forest of uncertainty if it meant getting a shot at a clue, skinning it for answers and- Okay, that metaphor got away from me. But the point remained. 

I was not giving up. 

Damn, that sounded so cool and dramatic.


	5. Convergence

I made the mistake of thinking my friends would be interested in my thoughts on the Mackenzie situation, only to be lovingly and supportively shut down. They seemed to think I could be dissuaded by telling me I was crazy, but we already knew that. So, for the rest of the week, I kept my theories to myself. Besides, there was a separate development that kept my mind pretty occupied. 

On Thursday, the other day of the week that Journalism Club met, a feud erupted amongst the boys working on the sports section of the school newspaper. I wasn't entirely sure what the problem was, but Mr. Lamar decided that it warranted completely shuffling the groups around. In the course of his rampage, in which he split up the boy's monopoly of sports, Jiwon was moved to the fine arts section, and Ian became my new partner on the general news section. 

I thought I might be pregnant already. 

"Hey, Amara," he said as he brought his things over to sit down next to me. I knew it was perfunctory (the boy had been raised to be polite, after all), but I still felt special. His smile had that effect. 

"Hi," I replied, then turned and opened my laptop. _Wow. Maximum effort, there._

Ian followed suit, but while he waited for it to boot up, he leaned over a little and dropped his voice to whisper, "My former partners mutinied against me. I think they were just resentful because I know the difference between 'there,' 'their,' and 'they're.'"

I huffed a laugh, my thoughts resembling a rapidly-moving kaleidoscope at his proximity. He had a clean scent— _this man showered_ , which was an accomplishment compared to some other guys at this school. 

"In that case, you might be overqualified for this position too," I joked, matching his soft tone and doing my very best to sound sexy. Result? Hard to say. 

"Nah," he said, with a small smile known to have teen-girl-melting properties, retreating back to his own space. "You're smart. I bet you even know how to spell 'necessary.'"

Any response was delayed by a buzzing in my ears as the words _He gave me a compliment!_ bounced around my skull for a moment. When I was capable of thought once more, I just smiled, looking down at my computer. 

He started talking about the list of items we needed to cover for this month's edition, but I didn't really register the words. I knew what I was doing enough that I allowed myself to get lost in the cadence of his voice, which had never before been directed at me for more than a few seconds. Even this small development had me feeling warm inside, and my fingers itched to text my friends. 

When the club meeting was over, I imbued as much charm as I could into my "See you later!" to Ian. But he'd gotten a phone call, and judging by the way his brow furrowed and his mouth was set, I could tell it wasn't good news. As a result, I only received a quick nod in farewell before normalcy demanded I take my leave, and I couldn't help but feel disappointed. Perhaps if I hadn't been expecting him to vault over the desk to sweep me into a kiss, I wouldn't feel let down, but I was a woman of high expectations. 

As usual, I sat for a few moments in my truck, watching Ian jam his helmet on and get onto his motorcycle, looking more than a little upset. As he started it up, I tapped out a message into my friends' group chat. 

_guess who's Ian's new partner for the newspaper?_

The replies were fast in coming, and I couldn't help but smile at the chorus of congratulations and gasping emojis. 

_You know you've got to wear something really low-cut every time there's a club meeting, then, right?_ Carla said. 

_I'm not doing that. Besides, not everyone can pull off cleavage like you_ , I responded. It was true—Carla was the only one of us who could look good in low-cut shirts. I lacked the proper upstairs department to do so, and my tastes ran more toward graphic tees, anyway. Besides, my philosophy was always that if what I wore wasn't enough to make a man interested in me, then I wasn't interested in that man. 

I wasn't sure yet if I was desperate enough to make an exception for Ian. 

-

The excitement fizzling inside me at the prospect of working with Ian lasted for days. Conversation plans were born, briefly considered, then abandoned, one after the other, as I started to concoct my master plan to seduce him. Even if 'seduce' was never a word used in the same sentence as my name. 

Although I'd never admit to my life revolving around a man, I began to look forward to the Monday and Thursday afternoons when I got to see him and talk to him. 'Talk' was relative—we mostly just shared a few words here and there. At one point, I managed to make him chuckle with a whispered witty comment about something Mr. Lamar had made us read, and that sound had stuck with me long after the meeting had ended. Often, I caught myself smiling at the wall or ground randomly, thinking of Ian. Sam had thrown an empty pint of milk at me when she caught me doing it at lunch, but for the most part, my friends were excited for me. My interest in Mackenzie's death was relegated to the back burner, her plant in my mental garden in the shadow of the growing Ian plant. 

But that excitement died quickly and brutally when the news reached everyone one Saturday. It didn't just die—it was shot, run over, and dumped into a trash pit. 

The student population found out about the new dead girl much sooner than we did Mackenzie. Within hours of the story breaking, the teenagers of Brushford High were discussing the latest tragic suicide that had taken the life of Hannah Nguyen, a pretty senior on the debate team. 

She'd hanged herself in a tree in her backyard. A boy who lived in her neighborhood quietly reported that he'd heard the scream when her body was discovered by her mother. It was enough to send a chill down my spine at the thought. But the chills were just getting started. 

The thought crept up on me when I was scrolling through social media, past all the memorial posts of Hannah. It was just a little nugget of an idea, but it sank its teeth into me and would not be ignored. 

_Ian dated Hannah, too._

It had been right after he moved to Brushford. They hadn't lasted long, of course—it would've been abnormal for him if they had. But they'd gone on a few dates before it ended. I couldn't remember who broke it off, but that wasn't the point. 

Ian dated Mackenzie. Ian dated Hannah. Any toddler or fashion merchandising major could connect those dots. Not long after one girl he dated committed suicide under (what I believed to be) suspicious circumstances, another girl he dated has done the same?

And suddenly, that nugget was no longer a nugget but a wave, sweeping me away with the realization. With it coming on the heels of my days of inane happiness at being Ian's partner, I was glad I was sitting down. 

_Oh my God._

_Did Ian kill those girls?_


	6. Beginnings

All thoughts of how to squeeze as much innuendo as possible into one short discussion with Ian about what the font size of the paper needed to be left my head faster than my mother gets wine-drunk. Which is to say, very quickly.

I had a crush on a murderer. _Potential_ murderer. A very hot potential murderer. 

What reason could Ian possibly have for murdering his exes? Did I have my eyes on a psychopath, or was there something going on I wasn't aware of?

I was ringing Seline's doorbell in minutes, in desperate need of my filter—I mean friend—to help me sort through this new information. Our houses were close enough that I could jog to her place in mere minutes, a power which I totally never abused. She opened the door a few moments later, phone in hand, open to the message she'd received from me that I was coming over. 

"Are you okay?" Seline asked, taking in my dazed expression with a small frown. "Are you high?"

"I need to tell you something," I said, shouldering my way inside past her. Without waiting for an invitation, I began climbing the stairs toward her bedroom while she trailed after me, looking confused. 

"What, Amara." Wariness entered her voice. "Is this about Hannah?"

Smart cookie, that one. I didn't reply. 

Once we were alone in her room, I shut the door and leaned against it. It wasn't my intention to trap her inside, but maybe she'd listen to me if escape wasn't an option. Once she was seated on the edge of her bed, I clasped my hands together and looked my friend in the eye.

"I think Ian killed both Mackenzie and Hannah," I said without preamble. 

Seline just stared at me, her expression morphing from surprise to disdainful incredulity to plain annoyance. I watched her mouth work as she attempted to formulate a response, before she settled on, "I told you."

Not quite what I was expecting. "Told me what?"

"I told you," she repeated, rubbing her forehead with her palm, "that warming up your ramen in the styrofoam cups in the microwave would give you brain cancer. I fucking _told_ you, Amara."

A scoff escaped my lips, and I folded my arms. "I don't have brain cancer," I protested. There were a lot of things not right with my brain, but at least I didn't have a tumor. 

"Then please explain," Seline said, voice dry and face dead, "why you came barging into my house to tell me that your crush murdered the two girls who just committed suicide."

I opened my mouth, reconsidered, closed it again, then muttered, "They both dated him."

Seline looked up at me through half-lidded eyes. Her talent at shutting me down was so good that she didn't even have to speak to make me doubt myself. 

"Is that right."

I nodded. Shaking her head, Seline looked away from me, still trying to find the right words. 

"I suppose you'd know all about that, since you know everything about him."

"That's correct." I crossed my arms in an attempt to protect myself from Seline's scorn. "I don't know why, but it's quite the coincidence, no?"

Seline met my eyes again, standing up and taking a few authoritative paces toward me. "Yeah, Amara, I think it's a coincidence. Look. Suicide happens. It's sad, and I wish Mackenzie and Hannah were still with us, but the truth is they killed themselves and now it's time to move on. Not everything has to be straight out of a cop show."

My face fell a little as her words sink in. I wasn't used to this type of seriousness, and it was really killing my vibe. We needed a subject change. 

"You still need help with that photography project, right?" I asked, shifting away from the door to wander over to her desk. Seline had lots of little Polaroids and framed pictures of the four of us from our various social events together, as well as some of her favorite photos from a photo shoot here and there. We sometimes talked about how cool it would be if we worked in our passion careers together: me writing the stories, and her photographing them. Sam liked to interject that she could provide a story when she inevitably murdered a billionaire. 

"Yeah. Sometime this week." Seline sounded grateful for the shift in the conversation. Babysitting Crazy Amara must take a lot out of you. "Will you be free like Monday or Tuesday to go with me?"

I nodded, conveniently forgetting about the government notes I had due then. 

From downstairs, the front door opened and we heard Seline's mom calling out that she was home. We shared a look of panic—"I'm supposed to be studying right now!" Seline hissed. 

In seconds, the window was thrown open and I was being rather rudely shoved toward it. I couldn't hold back a chuckle as I swung one leg out, pausing to grin at my friend. 

"Damn, you're kicking me out the window and we didn't even have sex!"

"Get the fuck out of my house!" she whisper-yelled, and I gave her a tiny salute before clambering down the exposed bricks and taking off running for home. 

-

On Monday, I had government for my last period, the only class I shared with all three of my friends. We sat at a table near the back, and since the class was mostly just copying things from the textbook, we had plenty of time to chat. 

"I see it kind of like the cat in the box thing. Schrödinger's Ian." I held up one hand. "In one scenario, he's the killer." I held up the other. "In the other scenario, he's innocent. So he exists simultaneously-" I brought my hands together- "as both innocent and the killer."

"I bet Schrödinger is rolling over in his grave right now," Seline said, not bothering to look up from the textbook in which she was trying to hide from me. 

"Can he be dead in both scenarios so we don't have to talk about him anymore?" Carla muttered. 

"Y'all, can we _please_ have a conversation for once that doesn't fail the Bechdel Test?" Sam complained. 

They all moved on very quickly from my crush on Ian when I posited my theory to them, and I couldn't understand why. He was even more interesting now, and I assured them that I only had a crush on the version of Ian that wasn't the killer. The logic seemed foolproof to me.

Last period on club days always seemed to go on forever, but soon enough the time came for me to pack up and head toward Mr. Lamar's classroom. I hadn't seen Ian since the news about Hannah, and now I had to sit next to him again. _That's the opposite of a problem._

Ian was already sprawled in his desk when I arrived, and I gave him a small smile as I slid on top of my own desk, depositing my bag on the floor. By all accounts, he looked the same as he always did. I wasn't sure what I'd expected to see—him covered in blood? Wearing the expression of a maniacal killer? No, he simply sat and stared at his phone, Adonis bored. He even looked to be in a bad mood, from the hard line of his mouth, but I tried not to focus on that exquisite body part too long. 

"Hey," he said, tonelessly. A small part of me fell flat with disappointment, but I just shoved it aside with the skill of someone adept at ignoring their emotions. 

"You good?" I asked, cocking my head at him in concern. Was he upset about Hannah? 

"Mhm." Ian lifted his eyes from his phone, but rather than looking at me, he swept his gaze around the room, which was filling up as the beginning of club neared. When he spotted Tom, he beckoned his friend over, and I slouched off my desk into the chair, giving up on that interaction. 

"Dude, I'm pissed," Ian said, his voice now animated with anger. My ears all but swiveled around to listen. "My parents took away my motorcycle and now I have to ride the bus home from school. Like a _freshman_. I don't even know how I'm going to get home from club."

"Damn, bro, that's tough," Tom said, not quite sympathetic. "Why'd they take it away?"

"Because I have a C in biology, and I had the audacity to go out this weekend. Because they're clearly connected."

_Ian went out this weekend? Interesting...._

Tom shook his head. "Sorry, man."

"Hey", Ian said, sitting up a little straighter. "Do you think you'd be able to give me a ride home?"

His friend sucked air through his teeth, shoving his hands into his pockets. Trying to look very remorseful, he said, "I can't.... I have to go straight to work from here."

"I can give you a ride."

The words were out of my mouth before I even had time to think, and both Tom and Ian turned to look at me with mirrored expressions of surprise. 

"Really?" Ian asked, questioning but not rude. I nodded, smiling. Despite the buzzing static in my brain as it tried to catch up with what I just did, I continued to talk. 

"Yeah! We live in the same neighborhood, so it's no problem."

Ian only considered my offer for a moment before gifting me with a smile, causing my nervous system to behave like a disco ball. "That would be great, Amara. Thank you."

Tom wandered back to his seat and Mr. Lamar began speaking, but I could only stare at my laptop and try to suppress a grin. _I'm driving Ian Sheppard home. I get to spend time with him. Alone. In an enclosed space._

It took a few minutes for my body temperature to return to normal so I could focus on journalism. It wasn't until club was almost over that I even remembered—Ian was a potential killer. _I'm going to have a potential psychopath in my passenger seat._

Awesome!


End file.
